


Love, Newton

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Diary/Journal, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mutual Pining, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:03:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: After the first war, Newt starts writing letters that, this time, he never intends to send.





	Love, Newton

Dear Hermann,

Honestly, I wouldn't inflict myself on anyone. 

That's probably why you're pulling away from me so much, and to be honest, I don't blame you. You deserve to go be a rockstar and have a wonderful fucking life unburdened by me. Sure, I don't want you to leave because you're my favorite person in the world and I love you more than anything, but I'm not selfish enough to try and make you stay when you don't want to. You deserve far better than me, Herm. 

And I have noticed how uncomfortable I make you. It's why I'm going to start backing away now; cause and effect and all that. You've made your feelings clear and I need to respect them. The world doesn't revolve around me and what I want. Do you think your life would be better too if I killed myself? I don't think you're so terrible a person that you would be happy about it, but there's no shame in being... I dunno, secretly relieved. It'd be easy too; this apartment is way above five stories up. Which is weird, honestly, because I'm fucking terrified of heights. It's like I picked the place just to torture myself or something.

Like, what's the line? "I always wanted to die clean and pretty, but I'd be too busy on working days." I'm the last shooting star, Hermann. I wouldn't have changed anyway. I'm so tired and numb and I haven't felt anything in days. I'm done with life? No; hell, I'm bored with life. Nothing is exciting or interesting or fun anymore, and I'm just so tired. I want to dig a little hole in the ground and bury myself and sleep until I feel better again, or maybe just even feel something again. I want to beat someone up. I want to get hit by a car. I want to drive away from this city, The Mountain Goats blasting on the stereo, and never go back there again. I want to go out of fight or flight mode and have a moment alone to breathe and break down and let myself be traumatized. Which, I am, I guess. More than before. Lucky me.

I want to put my head in your lap and have you stroke my hair while I cry, and tell me I'm safe now and everything is going to be okay. I want the possibility of a future where I'm happy, or a future with you; same thing. I want to feel like someone loves me back. I want skin that protects me. I want angel wings. I want a hug. Maybe a hug from you.

But I can't make you care about me, Hermann, and I don't want that power. I keep a copy of my latest "note" in my paper organizer on my desk here. It's pretty damn well-written if I do say so myself. Maybe I'll give it to you someday. Maybe you'll find it yourself. Keep this, read this, do this in memory of me.

Biblically (or Torah-lly? whichever works),  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

I hate you. I hate you so fucking much I can barely breathe. You promised. You promised me, and now you're breaking it just like every other fucking person in my life. I thought I could trust you; I thought you were fucking different. I thought that something wonderful and beautiful and good was finally happening to me for once in my fucking life. But nothing ever does, because good things don't happen to people like me. They never do. I don't get friends I can count on who care about me and don't run away after seeing what I'm really like. People don't stay. I wouldn't want them to. I'm not something I would force on anyone. I fucking stayed alive for that fight. I poured every part of myself into it. And now it's just fucking over. And that's good! That's really good! We saved the world! Motherfuck it!

What I don't understand is why you can't just tell me how you feel. You don't want to be friends anymore; okay, I totally understand. I hate it and it kills me, but I get it. But fucking tell me. Stop pussyfooting around the subject because you're scared of how I'll react. You're a coward, Hermann Gottlieb. You're a fucking yellow, sniveling coward. And worse than that, you are a perfectly average, pretentious, annoying, overly dramatic, oblivious man. No fucking wonder you were so lonely. Sex with you was so bad it made your girlfriend gay, and that isn't even the funniest part.

I hope you get rejected every time you try to call the boring drivel you write "science". I hope you live an uneventful, unfulfilling life stuck at a desk job with a husband who is half as smart as I am. And when I do eventually find a goddamn way to kill myself, I hope you never, ever find out. Fuck you. 

I can't believe I'm in love with you.

\-- Newt

Dear Hermann,

I miss you so much I can barely breathe. I feel sick; I want to throw up but I can't. My whole body hurts and I'm so, so tired and I don't want to live in a world where I'm not your friend. I want to put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat. I want you to hug me so tightly I choke. I'll change myself, I'll never tell you how I feel again, I'll be better and perfect and happy just please love me as much as I love you. I'll even cut my hands off so I can't touch you again. That's how much I love you: I'll kill who I am for you. You're the closest friend I've ever had and you made me feel normal and safe and happy. You made me feel _safe_. Do you know how hard that is? My entire life I've been taught that everyone wants to hurt me, but with you I could believe that wasn't true.

Love,  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I don't think I can fix this on my own.

Dear Hermann,

Why am I even writing these? You're never going to read them, and nothing at this point is going to change how you feel about me. I'm just getting my thoughts out now, and you're the only person I really feel safe talking to. I've written an entire album's worth of songs about you, but I still hurt. I'm so tender and, surprisingly enough, I have a big heart. It's still full of love for you. Almost bursting, in fact. I don't think it's going to be empty for a very long time. 

This is the third day in a row I've ended the night crying about you (note I said "in a row") and it's starting to get annoying. I hate the fact that you matter so much to me. You don't deserve to be such an important part of my life. You're not kind enough or brave enough, and there's nothing special you could give me except familiarity . I feel like I've known you my whole life, but I've only loved you for fourteen years. Nobody should ever have this much power over a person.

You were my only friend, Hermann. After this, I'll be alone. I don't want to be alone. I want to hug you. I want to live in your arms. I want to rest my head where your shoulder meets your neck and feel your body heat (I'm fucking cold all the time now; I think they're starving me). I want a living human being to touch me in a way that doesn't mean me harm. I want to breathe you in through my open mouth. You're the gun in my lips that will blow my brains out. They won't let me use a gun, but you get the point. 

It feels like someone is stabbing an icepick into my chest. I don't want to feel this much anymore; I want it to stop. Everything fucking hurts. I'm exhausted and empty but I feel so much sadness I can't speak. Did I ever mean anything to you? Did I take up any space in your heart? 

Your liability,  
Newton

Dear Hermann,

I think I'm a bad person.

From,  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

Jesus Sweet Christ, I really wish they'd let me die. I do. Everything hurts like I'm dying of cancer and I can't breathe anymore and I feel sick and awful, although that last part might be the entire bottle of Johnny Walker those morons drank an hour ago. I don't want to be alone anymore. I miss you so fucking much. I miss how, when we went on trips, you always picked music to drive to that I hated, just because it was funny. I miss how you hugged me-- awkward, but honest. I miss how you let me touch you so casually; a hand on your arm, my own around your shoulders. I miss how I could cry in front of you and not feel ashamed. You're the only person that's ever happened with before.

I just want to curl myself up and get smaller and smaller until I disappear. I'm so fucking lonely I'm going insane. I want a hug or a pat on the back or even a handshake. It feels like my skin is crystallizing. One of the interns tapped me on the shoulder yesterday and I almost had a panic attack. I wish that anybody out there loved me. I wish I didn't feel so much, or at all, actually. I wish I had your parka so I could wrap it around myself and pretend it was you. 

It's bad that I'm hurting myself again, I know, but this is the only way to make me feel alive. I need to remind myself that I'm here and breathing and bleeding (metaphorically, y'know), at least for now. I need to focus the pain inside myself to one specific point; I need to turn it physical and tangible, or it will eat me alive. At least, more than it already is. It feels like some massive dog has their jaw around my throat and is chewing slowly to savor the taste. I don't get a high, that's not why I do it; I need the pain. It's not even that much of a punishment. It's like a sick meditation. I mean, it's as calming as anything else I've tried, despite the fact that it literally makes the problem worse. Those fuckers get a spa day every goddamn time. 

It's really terrifying and awful that I'm going to have to live with myself for the rest of my life. That I will always be alone, because everyone who ever really gets to know me just runs away. And why wouldn't they? Just fucking look at/talk to me for five seconds. I will never be rid of myself no matter how hard I try. I love you too much to lose you. I love you too much to be who I am. 

I don't think I'm alive anymore. I'm just breathing while on fire. What kind of a fucking life is that? What kind of brain was I born into? Who did this?

Hell, I'll tell you what: if you find just one person who would look at me and not run screaming away, if I make it out of this, I'd be happy to get better. Pinky promise. They don't even have to love me, just tolerate my existence. But you can't, can you, Hermann? They don't exist, and I've got endless proof of that. 

Sincerely,  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

I loved you first. I don't say that to be possessive, and I won't disgust you with being romantic, but I mean it. I loved you first. Never, for me, at least, forget that. Everywhere I look there's a hole where you should be. I never mean as much to people as they do to me. And you did mean everything, Hermann. But I should never have put the burden of my full self on you. You are my favorite person who's ever left, and the best mistake I've ever made. If you loved me at all, Hermann, then _you_ loved me first. 

You know the worst part? I don't hate you. I never did. I don't think I can. 

Isn't that fucking pathetic?

Love,  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

When I see you tomorrow, I hope you punch me in the face. Then I hope you start running.

Fearfully,  
Newt

Dear Hermann,

They gave me paper and a pen, I assume thanks to you. I'm still getting used to putting my thoughts out without being interrupted, but I guess that's something I'll be able to practice now. Which. Is fucking crazy. But thank you. I can never say that enough times, but I'll start here: thank you.

I think the most unbelievable thing about this entire experience is that you love me. Holy shit. I just wrote out the words on paper. You love me. Hermann Gottlieb loves me. Newt Geiszler. Holy motherfucking shit. I keep laughing every time I remember it, and I'm pretty sure the guards think I'm still crazy. But who the fuck cares? You love me! You love me back! That right there, _that's_ crazy.

I'm trying to think of something poetic to put down, but those words keep replaying over and over in my brain, and I can't write anything else. I want to fill an entire book with just that truth. That it _is_ the truth. I love you so much it hurts, but like when you see two animals being best friends, or hear Fast Car on the radio, or finally take a breath after being underwater for a long time. God, isn't that a metaphor? I was drowning in my own head, and you pulled me out and gave me one hell of a mouth to mouth-- semi literally.

You're a really good kisser, by the way. I get the feeling I lied about the sex.

When we were in the Drift, I saw a memory of you from a few years ago from the outside. You were sitting at your desk and crying, and there was this massive black claw stuck straight through your chest. It was curved upwards so you couldn't pull it out without some work, and dripping black ooze, and every few seconds it pulsed like a beacon. Was that how you felt? Did I do that?

Here's another thing I'll never be able to say enough: I'm sorry. I'm so, so fucking sorry. You said you forgive me, even though I didn't do anything wrong, but that's the one thing I can't believe you on. However long I get to be with you, I'm going to spend every moment trying to make things up. I still think you deserve better than me, but now I'm going to do everything I can to be the kind of person who's good for you. I want to make you happy, Hermann. I want you to wake up every single day and be absolutely ecstatic to be alive. I know that's how I feel when I'm with you.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, or the day after that, or even in the next five minutes, but I know that as long as you're with me then, I'll be okay. Cheesy and overly optimistic? Yeah. But it's one hundred percent true. Trust me, I Drifted with a genius mathematician. I know my percentages.

There's a window in the new room they've given me that looks out at the ocean. From what I can tell, it's early morning. The light is just starting to come up over the water, and I've never been a particularly poetic person, but there's gotta be a metaphor in there somewhere. The sun is rising. How amazing is that? The _sun_ is _rising_. And I made a promise to you I fully intend to keep.

Every single atom of my love,  
your Newton


End file.
